Procrastination Kills.

I'm unaware of how this happened, but the Holidays are only a few days away. I NEVER NEVER NEVER like to wait till the last minute (HAHAHAHAHA) but here I am, and it is blinking at me, waiting to see what I'll do.
This year, I completely blanked and could not come up with ANY ideas for gift giving. I was at an utter loss. I always intend to have these spectacular, perfectly appointed, deeply moving and personal gifts. Usually it ends up with a handmade card with a handpicked giftcard in its belly. Bummer. In the craziness that has been this year, I completely forgot my intentions. Now... I'm scrambling.
I have the usual purchased fare, I even think some of it will be appreciated, but the hand touch that I adore just wasn't there. There was no heart. Some of those gifts, though beautifully and tastefully wrapped by moi, are screaming at me from the tree: "YOU GRABBED ME WHILE YOU WERE IN LINE TEXTING PEOPLE!", "No one ever EVER wants socks.", "You only bought me because that wretched woman in the next aisle was looking for me, and you were feeling competitive.". SHUT IT GIFTS.
I feel guilty. No... I feel gggggguuuuuiiiiillllltttttyyyyyy. (
Now, with mere days away until the Festive Throw Down, I'm scrambling. Yes, everyone has a present. Yes, they all match my tree (that no one will see) and they all have an individual complimentary bow, and cute little tags. Woo hoo, I accomplished something, but why can I never feel that I did what I set out to do? Why do I forget that last year, on January 2nd, I vowed to take my monsters to a paint your own pottery store and put them to work in a mock-sweatshop of clay? Where is the heart?
So I went to the local craft emporium, and I think I've purchased just the right amount of heart. Now it just has to be assembled. I will probably be chained down for the next few days, crafting my heart, swearing, and then drunk sewing/crocheting. I know there'll be tears, feelings of inadequacy, and probably lots of fires, but I'm going to pretend that the saying "it is the thought that counts" isn't just what people say when they gift you boxes of crap. Will it work? I have no idea. Will it turn out as planned? Oh absolutely not. Will the intended recipients ever see what I will spend the next 48 hours of my life slaving over? I'm betting a big fat no. If the positively fugly hat I fashioned last night is any indication. But maybe it will make ME feel better. Like a present to myself. I may still only give them the gift certificates, and Christmas Blend coffee beans, but I'll know that at home, I have an absolutely horrendous tea towel with mutated images of my childrens' hands stitched on them.

Feigning Festive.

It is that time of year, (And I won't say "again" because, frankly, it only comes once in a year, so it can't be that time of year again in this year, but I digress...) and I'm battling inner turmoil and an inability to properly embrace the impending holiday season. I'm in a frosty funk, if you will.

As the mother of two small boys, you'd think I'd be positively brimming with spunk and inspiration. Please people, in theory, this is MY kind of holiday: lies, bribery, bending the purpose of the season to fit my will. It was tailor made for me. But I can't get there, not yet. I've been Kringle-blocked. No tree up (which is good considering there has been no "fall decor down" session.) no redundant viewings of Elf, no plotting and ploying my insane gift wrap scheme for the year. Nada. What in the butt has happened to me?

As a means of invoking the holiday spirit, I've come up with a logical (for me) game plan, and because I love you... whoever you are out there.... I'll share it with you:

Step One: Establish Proper Holiday Smell.

That's right folks. That says "smell". As the proper word escapes me, and I'm far too lazy to google it, I'll say that I am an Odor Whore. I am scent obsessed, and I can't set the stage without the proper odiferous gesso being applied to the blank canvas. (I miss you Bob Ross!) So, I know you were all fretting, but have no fear! I have found the ever-ellusive best scent of the season. No real shocker that it is by Mrs. Meyer's Clean Day as I'm fairly certain I've been implanted with a microchip that requires me to do their bidding. It is an adorably simple glass jar, petite and sweet, filled with the most delicious Orange Clove scented soy candle in the world. It is positively delightful. I'm not sure what sort of James Bond technology has been put in there, but it is absolutely mind erasing. I completely forget that I have eleventy-seven other things I should be doing aside from sniffing a freaking candle like a huffer.

Step Two: Lay the Scene.

This one is proving to be much trickier. It isn't that I don't want the proper festive decor to both invoke the mood and ram in the fact that I am a good Martha Stewart drone, it is just that I don't want to CLEAN up enough to actually set the stage. Not only will there be furniture-moving involved, as this is a new house with an untapped tree-friendly layout, but I'm fairly certain that I've discovered my children are fully aware that there is only one of me cleaning, and two of them destroying in tandem. Also, WHY is it that uncleaning is so much faster than cleaning??? That is for another day. This also requires the husby to come home at a reasonable hour and cooperate in unearthing the decorations... which I'm fairly certain are strewn all over this house like Christmasy Easter eggs. I've seen some of the storage area combinations our moving company came up with. If the extra bathroom giblets are stored with the excess kitchen gadgets and my wedding dress, I can only imagine where the Christmas tree will be. Plus... I'm plain dreading the moment Niblet Number 2 discovers the glory that is undressing the tree.

Step Three: Bake Tons of Crap.

I love to bake. It is no surprise, I enjoy it... and it's fruits. But more than that... the BEST facet of this holiday tradition: Thinking about making other people fat. Yes, I'm that deep. I'll take a tiny bit of pleasure in the caloric-laden bites others will consume thanks to me. If I can't get skinnier... I'll make them all heavier. It is a simple joy. I also adore coming up with tedious little treats that look cute in cellophane bags. I don't even care if they taste good. I'll come up with anything that looks like Christmas: Marshmallows in chocolate covered top-hats, coconut covered snowballs, jingle bells dipped in chocolate because.. really, there is no good way to make a chocolate jingle bell that LOOKS good, and it really is an under appreciated niche... and they are sure to throw Dr. Grandma D.D.S. some work to make up for any lame gift I may give her.

Step Four: Make Christmas Cards.

This one is really bugging me this year. I used to hand make cards. It would take HOURS, and I'd be in that sort of glorious, delicious pain that says "yes, I've hammered 700 grommets into paper for 8 hours and no one will notice or care, but I AM HAPPY". Now, I choose to exercise my Photoshop muscles. Unfortunately, they aren't core muscles, and they're out of shape... so I'm behind... and the price of postage is daunting.

Step Five: Select the Holiday Fashions.

This one is a real road block this year as, suddenly and inexplicably, I sort of don't care. I got the boys cute lil matching outfits... and I am contemplating just dragging something from the bottom of my dresser drawers that I haven't seen in ages (as my husband has an unreal talent for packing things SO tightly into those drawers that you'll never see the stuff on the bottom again. I'm not certain he hasn't squished them right through the bottom of the drawer and into an alternate dimension), throwing it on and calling it a statement. I don't feel cute. I don't have the budget for cute, and today I have the first blemish I've had in months so I am sure it will never go away and only continue to grow exponentially erupting into a full-fledged parasitic twin by Christmas, complete with fully blinking eyes.

Step Six: Project Gift Wrap.

This one usually gets me all amped up in a big way. I am uber compulsive about my gift wrap, carefully selecting the colors to compliment my tree, the perfect paper for Santa to use, the coordinating bows and different ways to adorn the packages... I've even embossed gift tags before. This year, all I can think is "When in the frig am I going to have time to wrap gifts, and how will I hide the scotch tape from the kids?". Also, I'm seriously lacking in hiding spaces. So, for now, those gifts are stowed away in my car... (For all you would-be burglars out there... unless you have a dire need for environmentally friendly, somewhat novel children activities, and whatever random bits I got for a steal on black Friday, I'd avoid it.)

Step Seven: Enlist Proper Sidekicks.

For me, this is the simplest and most effective of all of the steps. Homemade cocoa and Buttershots... heavy on the Buttershots, and Burt's Bee's Peppermint and Honey lip balm. May be chintzy, but these are my holiday must haves. And I drink the cocoa nearly as much as I apply the balm... so I walk that fine line of ingesting enough spirits to be spirited and tolerable, and not getting so drunk that I forget that I was alive during Christmas 2010.

So... It is time for me to push through my Bahumbugs and soldier on until the spirit slaps me in the face. I'll make the traditional cocoa, and we'll trim the tree and hang the coordinating stockings, and the Elf on a Shelf will watch over us with his creepy, almost sadistic smile, and I'll get there... eventually. For now, I'll snuggle with my red glass full of white (because it is SO MUCH BIGGER), sit on my fanny, and make my list, check it twice, and then burry it under the junk mail so I can do what I do best: procrastinate.

Perspective is Key.

I won't go into how this cropped up. I believe, by now, we are well familiar with the inner workings of my gray matter. In the interest of saving time. It just popped in there. I've realized that, while events in our past have remained prime and unchanged, our view and perception of them can shift dramatically. I'm hoping this theory will apply in the near future so I can look back at present me and have a good giggle.

*Disclaimer* Should the person, I'll call her "Mary", that this memory represents happen upon this paltry blog and actually put herself through the monotony of reading all of these ramblings... know that I remember your family fondly and think you were all as sweet as they come. Really, the tone of this should convey the fact that I respect your mother more now than I ever could've as a child. I'm in awe at her strength, resilience, and obviously deeply rooted love for your father. With that being said, please excuse the snark...

As a child (and let's just say this was roughly *cough*twenty*cough) years ago a new girl began at our school. Ah Mary, she was as sweet, bright, and bubbly as they come. I just had to be her friend. We had a quick bond, and seeing as how my mother was opportunistic and eager to pawn me off on other guardians, we began having play dates. At her house.

Looking back, I thought her house was the single coolest thing ever. EVER. This will require a tiny bit of backstory to set the scene: Imagine, if you will, a new house. A BRAND new house. Err, and unfinished brand new house. That's right peeps. This family was living in their, as of yet, incomplete new house. Mother, Father, Mary, token adorable little sister, and my fogerty ol' brain forgets if mama was knocked up, or if bouncing baby brother had made his arrival yet. Either way, you catch my drift. Heinous. And don't miss my point when I say "unfinished". I'm not being exaggerative (as I am 154% of the time). I'm telling you, the entire first floor, save for the kitchen, was plywood. PLYWOOD. Not subfloor, not "missing trim", but wood and nails AWAITING subflooring and trim. And this was the livable part. Upstairs was, as of yet, unusable. Read that again and let it ferment..... I'll pick a cuticle while you ponder. Oooo, get it? The WHOLE family was living together in the plywood "family room" (not sure that was the intended use when the room was given that name).

Well, 10 year old me thought this was beyond awesome. I mean, seriously?! It was so cool! They bunked out in the cavernous living area, the echo's alone were sublime. I'm fairly certain I ran straight home that day and told my mom "You can ROLLER SKATE in Mary's living room!" Can't get much more boss than that. What kid doesn't love a house where the rules pretty much consist of "Don't go in bare feet or you will get tetanus"? Their kitchen was the sole completed room in the house, so that is where the parents were usually hiding while we had full reign. The basement was full of boxes, and if we could find it... we could play with it! Their lot backed up to woods, complete with creek and ravine. Now, my elderly brain has long since forgotten why this was, but there was a TON of old china in the woods. Yes, china.. as in cups, saucers, etc. Mary told me it was a dumping ground, but why would there be a china dumping ground? Whatever, in all honesty, it was far more likely that thrift store whores or divorcees took the china to the woods for target practice. Either way, we had a blast digging around for the rare complete dish or matching chunks. The stuff of childhood dreams.

I hung out with Mary quite a bit that first year before the hustle and bustle of Brownies and elementary school got the best of us. I'd say at least one solid, fun filled year of play dates. What I now remember with distinct clarity is that I'd never seen Mary's house complete. I do remember progress. Stairs were built to the second floor, drywall was put up. The bathrooms eventually got actual fixtures and showers/tubs. I specifically remember the vent covers being put on as the youngest daughter would throw things down them endlessly. So that was a YEAR that the family lived in an unfinished home.

I don't remember why. Maybe dad was a DIY king, maybe some unforeseen circumstance came up that even the most wise 10 year old guest hadn't been privy to. Either way, a FULL year had passed. A baby had been born and began walking... on plywood. Now, keep in mind that nothing has changed about that year except my perception.... (well, in all truth, I sincerely hope that the house was finished some time in the last 20 years, and it is my assumption that Mary and siblings eventually grew up and moved out, but I'd hate to be presumptive.)

Looking back, now as a mother and a wife.... how in the hell did Mary's mother not lose her everloving mind? Actually, to be honest, I now assume she had. How could she be in her right mind and agree, while very pregnant and with two young daughters in tow, to live in what was, essentially, a grown-up tree house? Sleeping on beds in a plywood living room? Showering in an unfinished bathroom without flooring or towel racks? RECOVERING from a delivery without a cupboard to keep the chuck pads in?! Absurd! There is no way I'd ever sign up for that.

She must've had one of those deep, crazy, against all odds/come what may cinematic romances where he: eccentric, scatterbrained genius with golden intentions a'la Rick Moranis, meet she: beautiful pixie-ish wife with glowing personality and no desire for personal space or window coverings. And the bells peal and the birds sing and they just KNEW. Pretty much an on-the-verge-of-being-committed commitment. That, or she was being held hostage. Those are the only two conceivable scenarios I can imagine. I know they remained married, because I saw them occasionally around town and they were together and not yelling or glaring. I just don't know HOW they remained married.

Yes, as I child I thought it was awesome squared, but now as an adult and a mom... it is my idea of the perfect hell. Control freak tendencies aside, I just don't think I could live in a construction zone for such an extended period of time. To move in and not be able to unpack anything because there is no where to put it. To have zero clue where anything is other than the blanket phrase "in boxes". Sure, material possessions are really unimportant and blah blah blah... I NEED to know where my stuff is. What if I want to make fondue?

Everything was always coated in a fine white dry wall powder. You couldn't go bare foot because of splinters or nails. There weren't outlet covers on all of the outlets.. let alone safety plugs. Just the echo of the children screaming will haunt me to this day. I have no idea how she did it. How she even came to the point where she actually agreed to sleep there, even if it was only a promised week would be beyond me. She spent a YEAR there.

So, as neat as I thought it was, and as cool as I thought Mary's parents were for living like this... now? Now I see either the craziest effing woman to ever roam the planet, the strongest woman I've ever met with an intense love for her husband that sees past insanity, or the best captor a kidnapping victim ever had... because not once in that year did she ever slip me a napkin that said "help me" and she had every opportunity to... I was there all of the time.

Making, yes MAKING, your own laundry detergent.

Damn the man.

Yes, damn him. I will not be a slave to you or your oppression via highway robbery... I will no longer let you bleed me dry one mega-jug of detergent at a time.

Well, it'd be a slow road to robbery, but still. As a stay-at-home mom, I feel my job (amongst the 1,000 other facets of my career) is to save us money. Save. Money. save... I'm always looking for little ways to curb spending so I can save up for...more spending? Anyway, the fact that this is natural and tingles the little green bits of my heart is simply an added bonus. It is so simple, so cheap, and so a way to kill a day when I want to sell my kids to the gypsies but opt to put them to work in my kitchen sweatshop instead.

Here is what you'll need... though I must first preface this by saying, in my long-winded fashion, that I have two kids. Both must be engaged in some safe activity before I attempt to do anything. Desperation is the mother of invention, so I'll throw in mini tip. A tiplet, if you will. I took yogurt, yes yogurt, put it in a ziploc, and let the baby go ape. Random and worthless, but he enjoyed it.

What you need:

Borax (again, can you hear the angels singing?)

Washing Powder

2 bars of Fels Naptha. This is a bar soap-thing that can be found in the laundry aisle.

Measuring cups (uh, duh)

A grater/processor of some sort.

Here is the recipe, if you can call it that, and it is as easy as can be:

1. Grate the Fels Naptha into fine bits.

2. Measure out 2 Cups out.

3. Add 1 cup each of borax and washing powder.

4. Combine! Et Voila!

You'll use about 2 Tablespoons per load, 1 in an HE machine. It makes a TON, rinses clean, and is safe to use on cloth diapers. Oh, and did I mention it is CHEAP? And up in the pictures... the baggie full of soap bits? Pop those left over bits, the ones you can't grate down unless you aren't afraid of grinding your fingers to bloody stumps, in a clean jar with hot water, and when it "melts" down, you have a killer stain remover. See? You just got 3 tips for the price of one! Enjoy! You'll feel like Martha, Laura Ingalls, and the Planet Green channel all into one.

Quick tip O' the day: Clean Commode

So, in an effort to blog more... a quick drive-by! You're welcome! ;)

I have a new home. Said new home has three bathrooms. Three. Glorious, yes, but oh so fun to keep clean. I've decided to do kamikaze maintenance scrub downs. Little visits from the cleaning fairy as an effort to keep down the massive hours of scrubbing, and seriously, who loves to scrub bathrooms? Well, I'll admit I do have a sick joy when looking at a gleaming toilet, but I'm the first to admit that there is nothing normal about me!

Now that we've established that I have three water closets and an unhealthy relationship with the toilet brush, here is how I get all of the party zones clean, top to bottom (heh heh) in under 20 minutes... Yes, I timed it. Oh, and as an added bonus: It's all natural baby.

Borax. Yes, again, my bestest buddy. I am aware we all know how to clean, and that we all know what to use, but this is back to the basics. Here is what you'll want before you start the oven timer in an effort to prove me wrong:

Borax

Spoon/scoop/shot glass... basically a sprinkling vessel. If you were smart and stealthy in the DIY tip area, you may think ahead and carefully empty out (or use, whatever) a tiny travel-sized baby powder conainer. Whatever floats your boat.

Empty Squirt bottle

5-6 junky wash cloths. I happen to love loading up on these at the local large chainstorefromhell (take your pick) when they are 6 for $3. I can always justify the purchase.

First, put on your best wreath of wildflowers. Obviously you'll have one on hand for just these instances. You'll see why... Scoop/sprinkle/Chuck the borax into the bowl of your potty. Make sure to get it on the dry parts, and some in the water for good measure. I typically use 3-4 tablespoons. Next, and this is the best part... LEAVE. Take your box of Borax under your arm, and (and this is where the wreath halo comes in) flit around your home like the nymph of clean. Let out a "tra la la" if you must. Head for the next bathroom and go sprinkle crazy there too. Hell, do the same in the next! Man! Don't you already feel like a goddess of domesticity? So, in under a minute, you've sprinkled borax in all of the bowls, left to sit, and skipped around your home like a damned fool. Process has begun.

As your bowls are soaking in their natural glory, pick a bathroom and squirt warm water all over the mother. Then wet your first cloth. Sprinkle some Borax on the cloth and wipe down surfaces. ALL surfaces. This works on everything. Rinse as needed, and then use a clean damp cloth to rinse again for good measure. I then like to polish with a dry cloth. I use a colored cloth for the toilets so as not to risk .... um, toilet germs? on other surfaces. Repeat on other bathrooms. It doesn't take long, remember, this is to maintain between those big "Someone is sleeping here overnight so I KNOW they'll look at every surface with a microscopic eye and a heart full of judgement" cleans.

After that is done, return to each gleaming toilet. Run the toilet brush on the inside of the bowl, flush, repeat on all bathrooms. Stand back and enjoy the rewards of your effort. SPARKLING, and clean! Now, go make a margarita to offset the productivity. We don't want our husbands getting any ideas about us making cleaning a regular thing here....

Welcome to the Jungle

Yes, it has been awhile. I've missed you, I've thought about you, I've never let you slip from my heart. I've found that the idea of blogging has been alluring, but I can't cultivate a direct path to a post. I have the ideas, but the thought of sitting, organizing my thoughts, EDITING (HA!!!!!!) and publishing is daunting as hell. So, solution? Revamp the blog!
I honestly want to blog more, but current format doesn't fit into current brain processes, so I figure it is time for a change. Words are the beginning of action... in theory! Feel free to hold me to this on Facebook. I need interweb mothers telling me to "Do my Homework".
As a leap into this fancy new methodology I'm going to do something I'd never normally do in public. I'm going to let my brain ramble and show ya what I'm working with. *Spoiler alert* This will preview a future (hopefully) post. I KNOW, SO exciting ( to my tiny subscriber list) but I can fool myself!
I've been thinking of this post for weeks now. Why I should've been born in the Victorian Era. Sounds odd, I know, but trust that there is a rhyme and reason. As I'm plotting away, my mind wanders, and this is how it goes. You may want to look away now, as this might be a bit "Being John Malkovich" and you can't get these moments back. Also, if you know me and like me, you may realize that there is an iceberg of crazy under this hair... you typically only see 10%.
I should TOTALLY be Victorian. I was practically built to use a corset, and thus, a fainting couch. The mere idea of a fainting couch is cute and all that, but to get the vapors from the tiniest bit of manual labor and then require the use of said fainting couch (In The Parlor... CUTE) appeals to me on a deeply intense level. Society wants me to look skinny, but gave me the bustle so I can put the 'ass' in massive, so I can't possibly clean the house today or I'll pass out from lack of oxygen to the brain, so..... *I need coffee*. Thank you LORD for giving me the foresight to get that french press!!! Now I don't have to drink 8 cups of coffee in an hour to prevent waste and that burning roast smell! I can progressively drink 12 cups of coffee in 3 sharp bursts thanks to this lovely fellow! I LOVE YOU FRENCH PRESS!!
The batteries on Huddo's Laugh and Learn chair are dying. It is a slow and creepy death. I've never heard "This Little LIght of Mine" sound so melancholy. When finished with the crayon's rendition of "La La La La" (If you have this hellish child's toy, you totally understand) in a LOW SLOW voice... it is straight out of the Tim Burton's worst nightmare. I love watching Hudson dance. Neither of my children is equipped with any rhythm... but he wiggles his hips in the most endearing way... I hope he never dances in a club. Though, to be fair, if I keep to my plan of forever helicopter parenting my boys, he'll never leave the house to go to a club. He'll stay home and we'll keep our couch dates, and watch HGTV, DIY, and FLN, my three favorite letter channels, and eat gourmet popcorn and give facials. Who needs daughters?
I need to go to Walgreens today. That requires a shower. And Makeup. I have a new outfit but I need to hem the jeans. What am I going to put the boys in? It looks like rain, but not cold rain. What the hell is "cold rain"? Why did I just think of that?
If I were Victorian I, or one or both of my children, would probably be dead. Probably from Cholera. Do people still get Cholera? Did I hear that someone had Cholera, or was that a dream? My dreams are so vivid, it is hard to tell. Remember that dream where Jared and I went down the hill in the rolling bar chairs from my old house, and the bathroom door was halfway up the stairs, but at regular 2nd-floor height so you had to climb in. Weird, yes, but in my dream all of this was perfectly normal. Wonder what that all means... probably a tumor.
Yes buddy, I'll get you water, but I'd be happier about it if you'd ask instead of the current, rapid-fire squeals of "WATER!". "WATER MOMMY". Is the stuff in the dishwasher clean? Meh, I'll run it again for good measure. I need to make the bed.
Scooby Doo needs to get lost. Not the character, but the DVD's. I'm about over listening to the portable DVD player in the background. I don't want him watching tv this much, but he screams when I turn it off. It isn't the screaming I mind... it's the whole now-I-have-to-entertain-you thing. It's like a freaking security blanket. He doesn't even watch it, he just checks in to sing the song at the beginning and the end.
What band IS THAT? It sounds like one of those popular bands that I hate and don't get why anyone likes. I know it isn't Nickelback... I hate them enough to recognize them, but it is something like that. Did the Hubby ever download that Ting Tings album? I asked him to do that months ago! I also asked him to fix Huddy's crib. He never listens....
I'm hungry. Well, I'm not hungry but I want something salt..... I get it Hudson! You're angry! I'd still realize you were upset even if you didn't crawl ALL of the way over here, pull your chubby self up using your talon-like nails on my feet, and wail in my face. You're tonsils look clear. I want soup. That's it. That's what I'm craving, soup. And strawberries. We need groceries. I don't want to get groceries. I love Target, but I'm not looking to spend $300 today, so I can't go there to get groceries. I wish we had a Whole Foods store. I wish I cooked more. I wish I had a self-cleaning kitchen and self-eating kids. Wait, would that mean my kids would eat themselves? Hmmmm. I'm going to invent something. I'm going to invent something to make my life easier and richer. What that is, I don't know. Hud is crawling into a tiny space and growling. I think he is more like a mean cat than a baby. He prefers to eat off of the floor, he growls and hisses, he's moody, and .... wait, what was I saying???
*End Scene* There's a glimpse. A few moments of uninterrupted crazy to justify the lack in cohesive blogs. I'm not going to make myself create "perfect" (heh heh) thought out blogs any longer. I'll come, pop in for a sanity break, and post a tidbit of whatever I feel like. I'll try and share more pics, make it more personal (um, yes, it can get more personal!), and more versatile. Maybe I'll even go in a direction?! DIY, tips, ideas. Yeah, that's it. We'll see what this mess will morph into. Thanks for bearing with me and letting me be flawed and scatter-brained! I'll try and do what I say... what was I saying?......SΩß≈zaHBN

State of the Union

My vocabulary is inhibitive. I fear there are words out in the universe yet to be unearthed that would succinctly explain the current "status quo" at household, but as they haven't been discovered... I can't simply write "Felquib" and be done with my blog entry, so here it is folks!

Moving. This blogger is moving, and while it in no way actually affects my blog (thank the good LORD some addresses are permanent!) it will affect my blogging (Verb: it is what you do!). Roughly 3 weeks ago it was thrown to me that my hubs would be getting a new job. Yippie! Um, but the new job is in a new city... three hours away. Boo hiss. At the time, the powers that be at said corporation providing current and future income prospects had intended for my life partner to begin in two weeks. I informed my life partner that there would be a termination to our partnership if he were to up and vacate in 2 weeks. Extended to 3... it isn't looking much brighter folks! My husband departed yesterday to the song of screaming children and the tough facade of yours truly. I'll admit to you only (shh, don't tell) that I'm certain I 80% miss him. It isn't that I DON'T miss him, I absolutely do, but I more miss the HELP! Let us paint a picture here of our situation as it is...

House. Our decrepit dwelling is rapidly deteriorating around us. I should rephrase this, as we are prepping this shack for a quick sale. "This charming family home is seeking new management. Look at the yard! What a beautiful yard! OH, and do you like deer?? We have them coming out of our ass! Look at the pretty wall, the cobblestone pavers, the large wooded lot... *look away from the house... do not look at the actual house...* and have you SEEN the neighborhood?". In short, we've got some work to do, and when I say we, I mean I. Contractors and I do not mix well. I'm an A-type personality. I like order, I like honor, I like promptness, I like direct thinking and actions, I like hygiene. See how this poses a problem? I also like my savings account, and to that aspect contractors are like krypotonite. Some may know that last spring we had a bit of a home mishap. Well, I suppose you could call the porch literally sliding off of our house a "mishap". Cut to the fact that I, at the time, was pregnant, and our lovely city chose that moment to tear out our entire street and give me the use of a GOLF CART (yes, that's right) for the last 14 weeks of my pregnancy. Unless brick masons dig golf carts, there would be no porch repair over the summer months. Fast forward to July... baby born, 2 weeks later road is done and golf cart is removed from my sight before I bitch slap it. Now I'm strapped with a new born and ZERO desire to deal with home repair, let alone bathing and teeth brushing. Here we are, in the throws of winter and I still have this ugly scar on the face of my home. Bids go out, bids come back... money is being pried from my death grip and snuggling up warm and cozy in the pockets of a lovely local renovation company.

Our garage door went on the fritz, so my hubs ordered the part. Correction, he ordered 2 parts at the suggestion of the manufacturer. Let's just cut the preamble and get to the part where none of it was ever fixed. I shelled out more clams and waited for my install call. Apparently the independent contractor is a total douche nugget (yes, that is a technical term adults use in casual company, I'm on the phone with the people at Webster now...) and thinks nothing of pulling random times out of the air and then not even bothering to show. And he has my $300 garage mechanism in is douchey truck. After many calls to Home Depot (who I still love, I just am launching a campaign to have them fire this contractor) he came on a Sunday afternoon and we now have an operating garage door as opposed to manual lift technology (get out of car, lift garage, etc.). This did not happen without several lies on his part, the accusation that I'm a ditzy ninny with no aspect of how to work a new-fangle telephone doohickey, and the inability to understand a simple conversation. I will hunt him down and key his car later, when things settle.

Carpet is expensive. It is expensive, and it requires moving furniture and cutting and dust and filth. All of my least favorite things. I place my order and promptly bend over for payment. "OH, and the specific flooring of choice will be here approximately 2 weeks after your husband has abandoned you and your two small children ma'am, so you'll be emptying your home and removing your current floor covering and underlayment yourself in the twilight hours assuming your children ever sleep. Will that be cash or check?" Check. I try not to plot how to off my husband on the drive home.

PACKING. I typically enjoy packing. It is mindless, mundane, I can be as OCD as I care to be. I caress all of my belongings, mentally cataloging, lovingly packing away for safe keeping. My idea of heaven, as I'm awesome at solitary tasks. How solitary can a task be with kids and a dog following you around, popping packing bubbles, eating newsprint, and bumping you with their tail as you handle all of your Tipperary and Waterford crystal. By the way, that last one was the dog. I had all tails removed from my children. Not only do I have to pack an entire household, but again, I'm doing it alone. Sure, I can make roughly 400 lists about it, but those lists don't do heavy lifting, and they don't move all heavy boxes to the garage, nor do they wrangle children. Stupid lists. I'd love to call my friends and have a perfect Sex and the City moment where we drink copious amounts of wine while packing my literary awards and Manolo Blahniks, but in reality my house is a disaster and I'd hate admitting to anyone the state it is in. If I drink wine my baby cries, and I've never won a literary anything other than A's on book reports.

Home purchase. We found the perfect home. Honestly, it is just the right fit. That being said, it is roughly a mere $20,000 dollars more than I wanted to spend, and we'll be rocking a double mortgage and accessorizing with a swing loan. How en vogue. Also, guess who will be handling all of the details such as hook ups, hiring movers, signing the paperwork, dealing with the miniscule details that come along with the move? Moi. Oh, and let us not forget the parasites that are ever in tow.

Husband. Gone. Working at a new job he is, as of yet, unsure about. Many uncertainties and unknown variables lurk around the corner and while he needs/has my support... I'd be lying if I wasn't more than a tidge peeved that he gets nights of uninterrupted sleep and he'll be walking around for a month without other people's food or slobber on his shoulder. We are that corny couple that is only apart a day or two here and there. This should be interesting to see what life is like a month apart.

So. That is the state of life as of this moment. The blogs will be spread out for a bit. They'll be more frantic and less technical... yes, that is possible. There may be an increase in swearing and a decrease in sanity.

*Edited to add*... the plague has hit me. All the denial in the world won't wipe away this rudolph nose and sexy smoker's voice. I asked someone last night why the Universe thought now would be the appropriate time to throw all of this at me to which she replied: "Why would you assume the Universe is thinking of you."

Touche.

WWMD?

I find myself constantly grappling with my inner thoughts, goals, and cheapskate. I've learned, as of today, that my life's philosophies have generally boiled down to one common thought: What would Martha do? While I have yet to design and properly hock my plastic bracelets, I find embracing my internal Martha-ness to be oddly comforting. It's like sipping a fine chamomile tea from my latest antiquing score, obviously a depression glass mug, while warmly cloaked in my latest hand-spun alpaca blanket on my Amish milled front porch swing overlooking my peach orchard at sunrise. Now, I should add that I drink whatever tea was sent to me in a gift basket, I practically break out in hives at the mere thought of antiquing, I'm more than likely allergic to Alpaca and I don't even have a porch, let alone a peach orchard. Oh, and sunrise is WAY past my bedtime. Regardless, I feel like I covet every last item on that list. I'll cast aside the part where Martha Stewart is a money hungry attention whore who'd sell her soul for the chance to have a top selling line at Kmart. I also choose to ignore the fact that she is a raging frigid bitch. I just adore the way Martha that speaks in that low, slow, uppity Connecticut manner, completely shunning her Nutley, NJ roots. I love how everything is a process, with strict methods and snobby quality practices. Things always are three times as difficult as necessary and require specific utensils for each step. Martha never just jabs at construction paper with safety scissors in the hopes of cutting a circle. She delves into her pottery collection after measuring (with a pure wooden ruler as an homage to hand spanking nuns everywhere) the dimensions necessary for her project. She'll then trace with a pure graphite pencil onto the finest of velum, cutting on a mat with an exacto and then sanding the round perfection with the finest grit sandpaper. There must be 20 of her.
I ooze inspiration, but often lack motivation. It is the bane of my existence. I've met the loveliest of women who actually comes as close to my idea of perfection as I can imagine. I'm sure she may not even realize she possesses such fine traits, but I assure you she is glorious! Thanks to her, I have picked up new hobbies, and found new obsessions to dominate my life. "A", the inspiration and knowledge I've collected from you is immeasurable! ;) I swear there is nothing she doesn't know about! I also dig that she has a blog/link for everything!!!!! So, my new project makes me swell with joy and has me itching to get started: I'm going to make laundry detergent. May not sound amazing and glamorous to any sane person, but I've never claimed to be on the side of sanity. I'm more excited to make detergent than I was to wed. Can you even imagine???? You'll clean your clothes, linens, and diapers with detergent made with your own hands. Yes, I am that lame.
Another not-so-secret of mine is that I'm mad about Borax. I adore it. There is simply nothing I can't do with Borax. I love that it is old-fashioned, I love that it is natural, I love that the box has tiny mules on it. There is an entire museum dedicated to it, and better yet... it is in the town of Boron. How perfect! Seriously, I'd list all of the reasons I covet Borax, but there is no way anyone would read this post, let alone any blog I ever write in the future if I did. Let's just say it is an invaluable member of the family. Counter tops, bathtubs, carpet deodorizer, laundry, brainwashing... it does it all.
As a happy side effect of this never ending cycle of gather, collect and purge, I sent my family off to de-clutter the house this past Sunday. My missing sewing machine was unearthed, thus staving off impending divorce proceedings. Check that off of my list. Now I'm all a tizzy with ideas and visions of my foot happily pressing the treadle. My imagination far exceeds any perceived skill I may possess, but a girl can dream. I'll be adding fabric to my list of things to throw money at when I'm at a craft store: yarn, felt, fleece, flannel, decoupage medium, scrap booking paraphernalia, picture frames, tiny things that always need dusting, and a proper sniffing glue. My children don't really need a secondary education. They aren't even old enough for a first-ary one.
I'm in no way deluded enough to believe that I AM the next domestic idol. Quite far from it in fact. You'll find that most ambitious projects I attempt result in an utter fail. Things take twice as long, cost three times as much, and never even resemble what they were intended to be. That being said... I'm happy to occupy my time in that matter. It keeps me off of the streets. It also keeps me from squeezing my babies until their eyes bulge. I could be a drinker, but instead I'm a hobby-pusher. I'm a craft enabler. I'm sure I'll never stop coming up with things to do, just as I'm sure I'll never do them all and a good portion of them will remain unfinished. Martha would hate that about me, but I believe there are far more reasons to hate her, so she should shut her yap. I don't at all believe she practices what she preaches, after all... I've seen her daughter's show. No woman who spent All Hallows Eve bobbing for handpicked apples in the perfect copper tub could hate her mother that much. That is why I know her methods are an illusion, and she pays her minions to carry out her whims for her. She's a whip cracker. Perhaps I DO aspire to be her....

Win a Bumbleride

This is a quick post..... if you follow the blog: The Bragging Mommy, you have the opportunity to enter and win a Bumbleride Indie Twin!!!! As ANYONE who has ever met me, spoken to me, or walked by me knows.... I LOVE MY STROLLER> It is as real and pure a love as has ever been. I'd let it sleep next to me in my bed and I'd even share my pillow!

I researched strollers HEAVILY before feeling comfortable enough to reveal that we were "with child" (and by WE>... yeah, I mean me!). Looking for strollers kept me from spilling the beans! After MONTHS of looking, calling retailers, etc. I finally decided (with the help of Melissa at letsgostrolling.com) that the Indie Twin was for us! It is the ONE decision I've never second guessed! It is amazing! It opens incredibly easily, if folds even easier, the attachments are GLORIOUS... we particularly love the bassinet as it allows baby to sprawl out and when he screams it is super easy to whip him out and shut him up! ;) The foot muff attachment is even better because he can be cozy and sleep in a cocoon of comfort. I can chase my toddler, drink my coffee and talk on the phone while pushing with ease and accuracy! If I hit you with my stroller you can rest assured that I MEANT TO HIT YOU. The foot break is invaluable as I often have to break and run to catch said thieving toddler.

Being that I'm EXTREMELY short in stature, the adjustable handle is a glory. I can even lower it enough to put my almost 3 year old to work! Who doesn't love that? I will spread the love of my stroller to the ends of the earth. I have no idea how I made it through my oldest son's first 2 years without one... I MUST get a single Indie when and if there is ever a day I don't need my Twin! Seriously. I love it. Just ask my parents, who I battled with for weeks saying I would rather die than travel without my bumbleride and all of it's toys! I HAD to have it in the airport and the baby spent the entire week sleeping in the basinet (NO need for a pack n play!!!)! I fight for what I love! So, enter for yourself if you will (Just copy and paste the link!!! :http://www.thebraggingmommy.com/2010/01/bumbleride-indie-twin-stroller-review.html

Unholy Holidays

First fiscal mistake that doomed the holidays this year: Awwww! Let's have a baby! Why not? Our other costly bundle has every medical anomaly known to man, and I'd love nothing more than to insure the the powers that be at Blue Cross and Blue Shield have a Merry Christmas in their sprawling mansions! So, here I am, counting down the days until our met deductible is rolled over and wiped out, praying major illnesses occur before the New Year ball drops. There has only been one year where I've followed my own excellent advice and finished my holiday shopping the first week of November. It was pre children, in the wonderful days when we could just go and shop. Wake up, shower, dress, get in the car... whenever I wanted, whenever I felt like it. I could walk around shops in silence. There was NOTHING on my arm, no wonky walking with the infant carrier on one arm and a toddler on my hip. Amazing. Those were the days of disposable income.

The yuletide was a tidge skimpy this year. That's ok, as I reminded myself that it is about baby Jesus, not Baby Einstein. Try explaining this to my near 3 year old who has recently discovered the glory that is Santa. It all worked out, he had an entire paycheck worth of gifts opened in under a minute. He loves the toys, though he would love nothing more than to have 5 more weeks of gifts. The baby was utterly oblivious, so he happily gnawed away on boxes and tissue paper, forgoing the pricey chew toys. He'd have been just as happy to have milk and a clean diaper, but how would that look in his baby book? Baby's First Christmas: We fed you, clothed you, and nourished your loins. Me thinks he'd be less than thrilled. That's the stuff that therapy is made for.

Needless to say, my children were thrilled with their winnings. Oldest was practically running down the aisles, hands waving, ready to bid on the tasteful lazy boy recliner. He received the obligatory loud toys in the form of a complete tool bench and proceeded to run through the crowd providing free gynecological exams with his power drill, pro bono. Thankfully he was sporting the appropriate safety eyewear. The baby fared well also, though not as well as big bro but who's going to tell him that. He's not even 6 months old, so he doesn't care. He relished in being passed around, but as he is slightly less social than his 3 foot counter part, eventually he'd had enough of the crowd.

Now that the festivities have drawn to an end, I'm drowning in a sea of miniatures. Teensy cars, tiny legos, and a small army of "castle guys" who each have at least 40 miniscule accessories including belts and bracelets. My son is now obsessed with this tiny men and their correct outfits... though I am the one that must dress them. Oh joy. I wish we could just grow a pair and purchase him a barbie, but my husband is slightly inclined to follow imaginary gender roles, so the castle is technically not a dollhouse. My son may still have a daddy, a mommy (complete with 5 o'clock shadow), and brother armed with sword, crossbow, and mace, and he MAY be putting them all to sleep in the dungeon, but it is NOT a dollhouse. Sorry to break it to ya hubs, but EVERYTHING is a dollhouse to him, even the miniature car garage for greasmonkey tots.

It didn't quite feel like the holidays should. By "should" I mean the way that it is commissioned on Funny Farm. People in victorian garb caroling, and skating, and spreading joy. It was more about scrimping, saving, battling crowds, finding appropriate coupons, and cursing UPS. Mommy was a glutton for punishment and scheduled baby's vaccinations for Christmas Eve Eve. Proper crabbiness and fretting about the low grade fever that followed ensued. Silly me, I thought it would be smart to add two flu shots to the mix! Probably not one of my finer moments. Hubby's workday on Christmas Eve went from ending at 2pm to 4 pm which began an avalanche of issues. Mother nature was on the rag and proceeded to dump crap weather on us as a bird flip to the yule. We worked it out. All we really needed was our young, core family... but I didn't want to buy groceries, so we battled the elements and made it to our destinations for subsequent rounds 2 and 3 of presents.

All in all, the holiday proved to be less magical than I'd have hoped. Though there was still magic and mystique for my kids, I'm not sure I can pull off the magic of Christmas at 5 pm any longer. This may be the only year I can convince my son to go upstairs and pretend to be asleep at dusk because I "think" I hear Santa. If I tried again and fail, I'd ruin Santa for my son just for the sake of convenience, so I'll be figuring that one out for the next 12 months. I hope that I am smarter next year, and learn from the error of my ways. We began some new traditions, so that was great, and will pave the way to better Christmases in years to come. My opinions on the subject are moot, as it really has now shifted my focus to my children and that is how it should be. It isn't about me and what I want any longer, it is solely about the boys, the toys, and the smiles and eye twinkles. That was gift enough. Oh, and the left overs help too!

Ah, the Holidays. The time for peace, serenity, appreciating what you have and whoring yourself out so you can afford what you don't. It's that time of year where I want to curl up in a ball with my cocoa... liberally dosed with the proper cocktail of uppers and downers. There really cannot be people who actually have a simple, stress free Christmas. Even if someone claims they do, I'll never believe them. Holidays are more about lists, and obligations, and not forgetting that Great Aunt Margaret wants the RED $80 gloves, and not the black $20 ones. DON'T get the $20 ones... you'll be whited out of the will. You must strategically plan your travel so as not to fray the delicate balance of nerves between all sets of families. It is a fine tug-of-war, and if you misstep, you'll be sent careening into a sticky yuletide pit, lined in toffee and filled with curdled eggnog. Oh, and you're going to have to be a good liar to pull of Santa coming to your house on the 23rd Eve because there is NO way you'll actually be anywhere near your house at Christmas.

My oldest son is at that Golden Age where Santa and his ways are becoming clear: Ask and ye shall receive. We've tried manipulating him to cooperate with threats and bribes, we're telling Santa everything, but somehow he just doesn't care. He'll get what he wants. He must have a deal under the table with the jolly fat man. After weeks of preparation and coaching, I get the boys prepped, preened and psyched. We're going to see Santa! Yes, he's the real Santa, yes he knows where our house is, yes he eats chicken nuggets. I've even allowed the devil child to draw a picture for St. Nick. We arrive, and in typical fashion, my son grows horns. He's curled up in the fetal position with the picture up as a shield of defense. Of course, the baby things this is the greatest freaking thing since breast milk.. because really, what else does he have for comparison? There is a lady with blinking antlers... awesome. Lights, trees, and shiny wrapping paper... unbelievably cool. Guy in a rented suit with chin fur and gloves... whatever, he's wearing glasses so I'm sure those will come with a tug of his fat baby hands. As for the preschooler... Santa might as well be on the predator list.

Santa tries to coax, slightly. His helper is ever so sweet. I tell them I'm not expecting miracles... oh, the irony. The baby is happily staring at the stranger mommy has given him to. He's sure he'll like his new home at the North Pole. He could honestly care less what is happening. I plop the traumatized son into the man's lap and begin snapping away. I allow the elf to do her job and take pictures. I then begin to ferociously take my own pictures, as I will NOT be paying $40 for a variety of pictures of my children acting heinous. My limit on crap memories is $12.99. Finally, Santa beckons to me. He's whispering something that I can't make out of the din of my eldest son's shrieks. Ah, he suggests that I sit on the bench at his feet and hold the holy terror. Ok, we'll try it. It does calm the beast, but I'm not buying pictures of myself. I have plenty of photographic memorabilia from my years of servitude to the gods of holiday spending. Year after year of my and my sister in appropriately 80's jean skirts and she-mullets. I'm done with my Santa days. I put the toddler down and go to retrieve my clueless infant. Santa is playing with him, and cooing, and engaging him in activity. I'm still leaning over, attempting to unburden the jolly ol' elf... but he's not giving up the babe. That is when it strikes me: Santa is looking down Mommy's shirt. Filthy Sprite.

It is only AFTER the 5 minutes of hell, the forking over of cash, and the printing out of the most HONEST Christmas picture ever that my son tugs on my sweater. He wants to tell Santa what he wants for Christmas. Aw. Sweet. I lean down, and look into his twinkling, hopeful eyes and tell him to start saving because he'll have to for over the minimum photo purchase of $12.99 if he wants to see Santa again. The holidays are not yet fully upon us, but I'm already exhausted. Even I have no idea what turns lie ahead, so I'm as curious as anyone to see where this blog will take me in just 10 short (HELLISHLY LONG) days. It should be interesting if my kids have anything to say...

Merry Christmas... can't wait for the drinking on New Year's!!!!

The Bounty on Your Head. Part I

This will more than likely evolve into a series of rants. As a younger, free-er, unburdened person, I'd write. For myself, for therapeutic purposes, and as a means to keep myself out of maximum security prisons. I'd write LONG, flowery, overly narrative, and intensively descriptive stories to work out what I thought my life should be. Now, I often find myself thinking in my own quirky style of writing. If I were to ever write a book, after MUCH education, many tens of thousands of dollars in student loans, extensive rejection, accusations of copious amounts of self confidence and an over abundant belief in my own abilities, the book would be something like these little snippets. An amuse-bouche, if you will: just a bite to contain all of the flavor you are trying to express. See, flowery detail. So here is my first installment:

Your Baby is Trying to Kill You.

Phase One: Pregnancy and Childbirth

It is clear to me, (as an obvious pregnancy expert... I mean, I've done it twice!) that after you are pregnant, and you've given birth, the mysteries of the universe begin to unravel. You must shake off the cloud of drowsiness, and shut out the din of screaming to see it, but the purpose of life will be revealed. Our children are trying to kill us.

Many schools of thought claim that we are put on earth to procreate. To have children and further society. We are who we nurture and raise. We build the future. Phooey. I think we've been looking at this all wrong. I believe we have it all backwards. The children had US created for their sheer entertainment and their thirst for torture and blood. If you ponder this ideology long enough, you'll be a full convert. You'll see the truth in the inhumanity of humanity. We are puppets and children hold the strings in their sticky, evil hands.

Often, from the moment of conception a woman will just "know" she is pregnant. It isn't divine intervention, there are tell tale signs. Most of those signs scream in agonizing neon. Note, that these precursors to the positive test are all horrific in their own sweet ways. You feel "off", tender breasts (ah, let's not wax poetic, those twins hurt like hell), fatigue, and nausea. Blissful. That "pregnancy glow" is actually nothing more than the light refracting in the sweat you've accumulated after bouts of vomiting. Amazing, isn't it, that 8 tiny cells can wreak such chaos in your nervous system? Amazing... or crafty?

How sly these little embryonic soldiers are. How they taunt and tease! "Hey Mommy! You really want nothing more than a bagel with veggie cream cheese. Seriously. You've never wanted anything more in your life, and I know they aren't your usual go-took snack, but come on! I'm a growing baby, I'm hungry, you need your energy! EAT. THE. BAGEL." You have a whim. You give into the whim, after all, you're pregnant! This is not the time for watching waist lines and you actually DO WANT THAT BAGEL! Nosh away! Num. Isn't that good...... cut to 20 minutes later and your praying to the gods of the commode while you offer them the entire contents of your stomach. Baby pulled a fast one, and that slight indigestion you feel is nothing more than the cackling laugh of the baby within. Baby holds the strings, and baby is messing with mommy.

The peeing, OH THE PEEING! Why would a baby want you to be on the verge of a child-like accident ever half hour? Although it is funny to make a grown woman run to the restroom, or have a constant fear of wetting her pants whilst laughing, the ultimate goal is right beneath the surface if you're attentive. Slow, deliberate dehydration. Yes, doctor's tell you to stay hydrated, and you want to curse the doctor for prescribing you to fuel the constant need for urination. Know this: The doctor is your biggest advocate. Your OB may very well be aware of the sinister ploy of babies. Drink those extra gallons as a bird flip to your developing offspring! HA! You will not get me this time tiny fetus!

You'll grow, breasts and waists expanding. Baby wants to stretch, baby's getting bigger... BULL! Baby's trying to throw off your center of gravity so you'll take a header down the stairs! If you have other children, be warned that they are in on the plot also. Know that there will be neatly arranged rows of toys, tiny little fisher-price trip lines. You've gained 20 (50) pounds, most of it visible in the form of your baby bunker (belly). Your baby is now eclipsing all of the ground at your feet. You can't see these toy land mines, and you will go down. You will find the occasional doctor, perhaps an older variety filled with understanding and compassion, one that the children haven't paid off, that will suggest staying off of your feet. Understand this is for your own safety.

In the last few months of battle, you are spent. Tired, fatigued, unable to satiate, dehydrated. The battle has been long and hard. This is actually when the real battle begins. In this exhausted state, your baby will make its escape. All the experts are in the pockets of babes. They'll convince you to forgo pain relief for the sake of baby. Well, obviously it IS for the sake of baby. Baby wants a weak opponent! Those "experts" will tell you to push baby out. You'll be weak, and in pain, and every nerve is screaming at you. You'll think your body is helping you with the process, but nature is telling you to STOP! FIGHT! Keep that demon spawn IN! Anyone witness to a birth can tell you how similar it is to a crime scene. The only thing missing is the caution tape, professional collection of evidence, and tiny baby handcuffs.

Fleeting Freedom

Last Friday I escaped.

I did. I escaped for nearly an entire day and it was glorious and I never wanted to come back and I'm wishing like hell I was scheduled for a "day pass" again... Whew!

For weeks I had so looked forward to my daycation in Galena with the gals. WEEKS of counting down days, hours, minutes and seconds until I could feel like a real person again. I was ready to pee my pants. When Friday finally rolled around I thought I would burst. I hardly slept the night before and it had zero to do with the baby that delights in waking me at all hours. I got up, SHOWERED, and prepared to head out. It'd been a LONG time since I'd been on a road trip. I'd nearly forgotten how they worked. there was girl talk, and donuts, caffeine and a vulgar mix CD that was completely inappropriate for the ears of babes. Awesome. We arrived at our destination and promptly walked straight into a restaurant and perused the wine list. there was food. I'm pretty sure the food was good. The wine was fantastic. Upon completion of wine and lunch was dairy time. By that I mean that two of us are nursing mothers and, unless Galena would like to carve a niche into the coveted breast milk industry... it was time to pump. We splintered off from the group and stomped off to the mommy mobile. Though we are child-free, we still feel their wrath and are at their mercy. As we were relaxing into the hum of lactation, praying the lot stayed empty, we spied "courtesy tickets" tucked into the wiper blades. Courtesy parking tickets. What a polite town. "Please immediately pay $0." Will do Buck-o. As we finish up, we reunited with the unburdened and begin to shop. Two doors and half of a block later, it was time for a much deserved refueling. We stepped into the nearest bar.

I've never thought I was one for peer pressure, especially at my rapidly advancing age. All I wanted was a simple Bloody Mary. Spicy, tangy, perhaps with a pickle bonus. Apparently this particular established had had their bloody Marys featured in Gourmet Magazine. That's all well and good. I just wanted booze and V8. I finally succumbed to the pressure of my friends and the ever so punny waiter, and ordered the mother with Grey Goose. Minutes later a fork lift barrels through the bar, back up lights flashing, dinning my bath tub sized beverage. A veritable vegetable garden has been finely skewered and placed lovingly on top. My drink is mocking me. I make my group swear to cut me off if I begin to find the waiter's humor at all charming or amusing, and put lips to glass.

So, time for more shopping. My inhibitions are at an all time low, thank you Bloody Mary, and I realize that I've changed with age. I am, what I would call, a "reformed shopaholic", if you consider lack of opportunity a reformation. I have 2 kids. I look like something scraped off of the bottom of sneakers. Boutiques and I are not on speaking terms. Here I am, in a quaint shopping village, devoid of children and appropriately drunk. I find now, my method of evaluating purchases no longer revolves around money, trends, or necessity. I gauge my purchases based solely on whether or not I will have to dust around said item. If I buy this and place it on a surface, and months from now it is moved by tiny hands... will there be significant evidence that it had been there? Most likely yes, so in the shop it stays. Let them dust it.

As the day progressed, my shopping monkey has firmly returned to his preferred perch: my back. I see an $80 wreath made of wood chips. Its glorious. I must have it. There is no price tag, perhaps it is only a display, but I find myself easily slipping into the mindset that everything has its price. I'm sure I could convince the manager to sell me said wood chip wreath in all of its glory. I refrain, and it was only later that I googled "wood chip wreath" and found it for the aforementioned price. Next, there was a magnificent shellacked gourd bird with 3-foot red feather plumage complete with swing. COMPLETE WITH SWING! I think, I'd like that, I'm sure I have a place for it, who wouldn't want a giant, swinging, red gourd bird? He must swing in my bathroom. Thankfully, I did not have the $294.00 required to own that monstrosity.

Eventually, The day began to slow for me, as I was unable to spend the night... flipping children. I found myself getting sleepy (it was 6:30 pm) and worrying about the solo drive home. I said my goodbye's and found myself dreading the return to life. These ladies had a good twelve hours to go before pumpkins and mice returned! I was insanely jealous, and I honestly toyed with the idea of stealing them away and returning them home along with me. You know, the whole misery loves company thing.

The drive back was straight out of a c-level horror flick. Dark, isolated, lonely highways with nothing along them and a regular smattering here and there of what I sincerely hope was animal blood. Pardon the imagery, just setting the mood. I found the isolation creepy, so I cranked up the inappropriate music and got lost in thought.

I had a day. AN entire day where I only changed 5 diapers. No one screamed "MULK" at me, and I didn't have to go running immediately to serve it like a good little butler. NO one threw up on me. I didn't have to say "poopy", though I probably did. When I used the restroom, sweet friends held the door shut for me rather than fighting to escape and expose my mommy bits. I didn't have to watch Caillou. I, of course, called my husband 700 times, but this was half of what my inner control freak wanted. It was a compromise. He had sharp, short answers that were low on details, though I KNOW I heard Cindy from Wendy's telling the tale of my son's dinner from behind the drive through mic. I'd know that nugget peddling bitch anywhere. I got home late, though not as late as the old me would've liked. I slipped out of my cute adult costume and into my comfies. I crawled into bed with my husband on one side and dozing baby on the other. Everyone had been kissed and all was well... drifting off to dreamland. As I lazily shut my eyes, my tiny infant snapped his open and informed me that it was rude of me not to have asked how his day was. He proceeded to tell me in great detail.

All in all, it was a wonderful escape. Though I was a psychotic ninny to return to my asylum, it wasn't until my SUV was pointed toward home that I began to feel normal. I was only pretending to be that fun, free spirit. On the inside I was cutting up chicken nuggets, and screaming at people that I'm the mommy and I can watch The View if I want to. While I had a great time, and I will count down the seconds to my next escape, I'm glad to have my own brand of normal in between. now, if you ask me during my next escape... I'll swear I'm never going home again!